


Entranced by You; Plagued by You

by ToAStranger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 03:17:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6139489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When pain and fear do not work, there is pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entranced by You; Plagued by You

I’m stricken with a mood dark as Hades–  
for still I’m plagued by lust,   
entranced by her face – [her] touch –   
and by the body’s blunt intelligence,   
its thirsty tissues, its swill of blood  
blooming into constellations under the skin.

—           Maurya Simon | _St. Jerome’s Sanctum_

* * *

 

The dream—the nightmare—starts just as they always do, with a wash of cold and then overwhelming heat.  There is a breeze; it ruffles his hair, his sheets, and he stirs in relief.  When he opens his eyes, there are stars above his head.  His bed is soft beneath him, but it is at the edge of a clearing in the middle of the preserve.

He should panic.  He knows he should.  But he sits up slowly, sheets pooling round his hips.  His skin is bare except for the sheen of sweat that clings to him in the stifling heat.  Despite the occasional cool rush of wind, the night is as sweltering as Beacon Hills at the peak of summer.  Breathless and dazed, Stiles clutches at the sheets, wondering where his clothes went and why it’s so warm.

“Hello, Stiles.” A rough voice hisses, low and ominous, across the clearing.

Stiles’ tongue feels heavy.  He cannot seem to speak. 

He sees the nogitsune across from him, sitting on the edge of the Nemeton, wrapped in gauze and grinning with teeth that look as though they were made for tearing into flesh.  “Finally awake.”

“No,” Stiles whispers, his brows drawing tight, but everything is so slow.  His heart is so slow.  His body.  His mind.  “This is a dream.”

“Is that what you think?” it asks and pushes to its feet, padding over as it unravels tattered cloth from its hands, its face until he is staring at himself in unfamiliar clothes. 

“Yes,” Stiles nods, fingers curling tighter into the soft blue cotton of his sheets.  “It has to be.”

“Why do you say that?” it shrugs out of the thick bomber jacket, letting it drop to the grass without preamble.

“I…” Stiles frowns, blinking sluggishly at the fox spirit.  “I don’t…”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know, Stiles?” it asks with a smile that is sweet and cruel in the same moment, standing at the edge of Stiles’ bed, reaching for him and dragging clawed fingers over his cheek. 

Stiles’ eyes flutter.  “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Would you like me to help?”

“Will you?”

“If you ask for it.”

“Please,” Stiles whispers and hates how wrong it feels in his mouth.

Its smile broadens, and it settles next to him on the bed, hand curving gentle over his jaw.  “You, Stiles, are my vessel.  My champion.”

The wind shifts.  Stiles shivers.  He’s trembling, he realizes.  Sweating and trembling. 

“I have chosen you to carry me into this world,” it whispers, leaning in and kissing Stiles’ cheek, eyes gleaming unnaturally in the pale moonlight.  “And together we will unleash chaos once more.”

“Chaos,” Stiles mumbles, lips parting; his heart has started to race.  “I don’t… I don’t want—“

As Stiles starts to withdraw, the nogitsune _tsks_.  Stiles can hear his pulse beginning to rush and thrum in his ears. 

This isn’t right.  This isn’t what is supposed to be happening.  This is not a dream; this is a nightmare.  Just a nightmare.  All Stiles needs to do is wake up. 

The nogitsune sighs, hand pressing firm at the center of Stiles’ chest and shoving him back against the bed.  Stiles gasps, eyes widening, and the way time had seemed to _ooze_ along shifts, snaps, shatters.  Everything is sharper.  Everything is _real_.  The heat of the nogitsune’s hand on his chest, the sweat slipping down his temple, the quiet rustle of the trees around them, the soft press of cotton at his back, around his hips and legs.  It’s _real_.

Stiles jerks up, tries to shove away, panic like copper in his mouth.  The nogitsune laughs, pressing him down more firmly, and when he snaps the fingers of his other hand, blackness like smoke swirls through the clearing.  Stiles’ stomach churns.  He thinks he may vomit.  Even in the heat, he feels cold as terror winds up around his spine. 

“You couldn’t make this easy, could you?” the nogitsune chides as Stiles claws bluntly at the wrist of the hand pinning him down with impossible strength.  “Easy, now.  Don’t hurt yourself.”

The smoke rolls across the clearing as it oozes out from between the trees.  It draws nearer and nearer the bed, and Stiles nearly chokes on a shout when the tendrils curl up and over the mattress, catching his wrists like a solid being and yanking his arms out and away from his body, pinning him to the bed like an offering. 

He kicks out.  There is so much smoke.  It is so black; it is depthless and impossible.  It sneaks up under the sheets and wraps up around his ankles, pulling his legs until he can do nothing but jerk haplessly, helplessly.  It wraps firm, holds him down, smoke turning solid until Stiles can feel a heat in the things twining round his wrists, up his calves; he can feel an electricity in them; he can feel life in them.  They are warm and they pulse in time with Stiles’ own rapid heart.  Stiles has never been so terrified.

“It’s simple, Stiles.  It really is,” the nogitsune coos, petting through his hair, still sitting at the edge of the bed.  “I tried to make it easy for you.”

“No,” Stiles’ voice cracks.  “No, I need to—I need to wake up.  _I need to wake up_.”

“There’s no waking up from this, Stiles.” The nogitsune smiles, patting his cheek.  “There’s nothing but you and me and the decision you have to make.”

“Decision?” Stiles squeaks as the nogitsune trails its hand down over Stiles’ chest, to the sheet still draped over his lower half, clawed fingers curling into the material before yanking it away, baring Stiles to the night. 

“You are my vessel, Stiles.”  The nogitsune nods, eyes roaming, gaze hungry.  “My champion.”

“ _I don’t know what that means_.”

“You will.”

The solid tendrils wind further up Stiles’ arms and legs, sending his heart tripping.  He struggles in their hold, breath catching in his chest.  As they crawl over his skin, he squirms, a litany of curses falling over his lips.  They are warm and pulsing, but their hold is strong enough that Stiles knows there will be bruises on his skin.

The nogitsune watches a moment.  It rests its hand over Stiles’ belly, fingers splayed out, and Stiles lets out a shuddering sound as he tries to lurch away.  He can do nothing more than writhe and strain against his living bonds. 

“Do you know what it means?” the nogitsune asks.  “To be picked by something like me?  To be _chosen_?”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Stiles’ voice breaks.

Sighing, the nogitsune shakes his head.  “No more talking for you.  Just listen.”

Another vine of smoke wafts up over the head of the bed, easing down and wrapping around Stiles’ neck in a loose loop before pressing into Stiles’ mouth.  Stiles lets out a muffled yelp as his jaw is wedged open, his tongue pressed flat, his mouth filled with a slick, velvet heat.  He quivers, tears burning at his eyes at the way his jaw aches, at the way he gags out of pure reflex as it dips too deep for a moment before settling, like a gag that tastes sticky sweet like sap and bitter like ash. 

The nogitsune hums, staring down at him.  He pets over Stiles’ stomach, grinning as muscles twitch and contract as if to pull away from his touch. 

“That’s better,” the nogitsune breathes. 

Stiles tries to bite down.  The tendril tightens in silent threat around his throat. 

“None of that now,” the nogitsune warns, and Stiles’ jaw goes lax.  “Good boy.”

Sweat is shiny on his skin.  It’s so hot; too hot.  He cannot stop struggling. 

“Now, where was I?” the nogitsune’s lips purse, a mockery of Stiles’ own confused expressions.  “Ah, yes.  I _chose you,_ Stiles.  Do you know what an honor that is?”

Its hand eases up, up, up.  It rests over Stiles’ heart a moment.  Then it rubs a slow circle around the dusky pink of Stiles’ nipple.

Stiles’ eyes widen in horror.  His struggle renews with more vehemence, with more fervor.  The nogitsune laughs softly, teasing the sensitive skin around it before rolling Stiles’ nipple between thumb and forefinger.  Stiles arches, shocked moan muffled around the slick, black heat pulsing against his tongue.  Pleasure is scalding as it zips through him and settles quickly somewhere low in Stiles’ abdomen.

“No?” it asks, increasing the pressure until Stiles jerks and whimpers.  “That’s alright.  It’s not important right now.  What _is_ important is your choice, Stiles.”

Its attention switches to Stiles’ other nipple.  It plays with it, with Stiles, until the boy is trembling and sensitive. 

“You see, Stiles, I’m going to have you no matter what.” It tells him, smile crooked as smoke builds at the foot of the bed.  “But I’m going to give you the option.  I can make it _good_ — or I can make it _hurt_.”

He is not ready for the shock of ecstasy that rushes through him when the nogitsune wraps its long fingers around his half hard cock.  His hips snap feebly _up_ into the touch, moan catching at the back of his throat.  The nogitsune, smug, strokes again.  He pumps over Stiles’ length until it is fully erect and weeping precum. 

Stiles’ eyes flutter.  He strains against the things keeping him spread wide over the bed, whine rumbling up from the back of his throat even as the nogitsune resumes its playful explorations over the skin of Stiles’ stomach and chest. 

“I’ve only shown you pain,” it mutters and smoke crawls up between the spread of Stiles’ legs.  “I think now I ought to show you pleasure.”

Somewhere in the distance, there is a high pitched ringing.  The inky black between Stiles’ thighs grows solid.  The tendrils around Stiles’ legs wind higher, tighter, and lift Stiles’ hips.  Stiles lets out a low sound of protest, straining, but there is something wet and hot pressing at the tight ring of muscle between the pale cheeks of his ass. 

As Stiles grows tense, grows frantic, the nogitsune leans down and distracts him with the warmth of its mouth.  It drags its tongue over a pert nipple before sucking on it.  Stiles’ cry is lost as his back bows up.  He’s so lost on the sensation that he doesn’t react to being slowly spread, slowly filled, until there is already a pulsing tendril of heat working in and out of him leisurely.  Stiles quivers, whimpers, and his eyes roll back as the appendage glides over the bundle of nerves inside of him in a way that makes his mind short circuit. 

It does not take much to send Stiles over the edge.  With the nogitsune’s mouth and hands, with the steady pressure filling him, with the way he seems to ache and pulse in time with the things holding him fast and invading his body, his senses it is enough to send him spiraling over the edge and into an abyss he’s never known.

He jerks when he comes.  His toes curl, and he sobs as he spills out over his own stomach.  The nogitsune withdraws, mouth red and wet, eyes gleaming in the moonlight as it stares down at its prize.  It does not stop.  Another tendril slides careful, spreading Stiles further, filling him and sending pleasure like fire along his oversensitive nerves.  They keep moving in him; Stiles' hips rock in reply.  He whines, chest hitching with each breath, and he gasps in a grateful lungful when the tendril resting in his mouth withdraws slow.

“Look at you,” the nogitsune takes in the flush of Stiles’ skin, the mess of sweat and release, the glassy look in his eyes.  “What a lovely vessel you make.”

Stiles whines, and the nogitsune hushes him.

“It can be like this, Stiles.  Just like this.”  It promises.  “Everyday.”

Stiles wets his lips, trembling.

“I can give you pleasures you’ve never even dreamed of,” it says.  “All you need to do is ask.”

Stiles swallows once.  Twice.

“Please,” he whispers.

The nogitsune smiles.


End file.
